


Peter Parker's Night Clinic for Kinda Crappy, Accidental Superheroes

by Trickster88



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, But sorta cause Peter doesn't have his powers, M/M, Peter Parker Is Done With This Shit, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade has powers so it's not really no powers, nurse!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickster88/pseuds/Trickster88
Summary: Peter works long hours, okay, but he really can’t ignore the man bleeding out on his fire escape, no matter how much he’d rather collapse face first onto his bed and sink into oblivion.Written for theSpideypool Big Bang 2017!





	Peter Parker's Night Clinic for Kinda Crappy, Accidental Superheroes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this was written for the [Spideypool Big Bang on Tumblr](http://spideypoolfanfic.tumblr.com) and I had a lot of fun doing it! Special thanks to Zet for the incredible art and Mikasi for being an awesome beta reader! You guys are phenomenal and I'm sorry I've been a bit all over the place, but I really appreciate everything you guys did for me (: 
> 
> Beta: [Princelupo](http://princelupo.tumblr.com) | [Luposphere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luposphere)
> 
> This is going up a little later than my scheduled posting, but please go check out and support all the other fics in the bang!

Incredible art by Zet! Check back soon for a click-through to their Tumblr (:

 

 

Peter unlocked his apartment after the third try, jiggling the key in the lock until it finally _clicked_ into place. He really needed to get that fixed, but then, if he had that kind of money – literally any money at all, really – he’d be in a better apartment, one where he didn’t need to violently kick the water heater three times before turning on the shower. Peter closed the door, pushing his glasses to the crown of his head as he rubbed his eyes with his free hand. Long day, even longer shift. Don’t get him wrong, he wouldn’t change it for the world, but it’s just…it’s a lot, day in and day out. 12 to 16 hours in an Emergency Room will really take it out of a guy.

 

 _It’ll be well worth it_ , Peter told himself, not for the first time, as he wandered into his kitchenette to try and scrounge up some dinner. A cursory search gifted him with some easy mac and a potato, which made him sigh heavily but hey, he wasn’t expecting much anyway. He ripped the plastic off the easy mac container, haphazardly filling it up with water. He couldn’t really see it with his glasses off, but if he put them back on his eyes might very well pop straight out of his head in protest. He stabbed a few punctures into his potato with a fork, very nearly making a hole in his hand instead, and set them both in the cheap microwave he’d had since college.

 

“Dinner”, or some approximation of it, successfully set to cook for three minutes and forty-five seconds, Peter wandered into his bedroom, pulling off his scrubs as he went. He’d had to hop into maternity for a hot minute today, since Carina was late, and his clothes stank of sweat. Man, residency really put you through the paces. He supposed it was only fitting, you know, earning your stripes and everything – but it still kind of sucked.

 

He was in the middle of rummaging for a clean pair of boxers, top discarded somewhere in the vicinity of his bedroom corner, when a CRASH scared the shit out of him from just outside his window. What the hell? Pretending like he hadn’t just jumped out of his skin, Peter cautiously approached the window. A low groan, muffled by the glass, reached his ears and Peter lifted one of the blinds carefully with two fingers, peeking out at his fire escape.

 

It was a man, probably, judging by the bulk anyway. The crash lander was decked out in an entirely red and black suit, which was unfortunately far more _red_ at the moment. That’s all the observation he was able to catalogue before Peter was pushing open the window, unable to curb his instincts. “Hey, oh my god, are you okay?”

 

Peter wasn’t entirely sure _where_ the gun came from, but the barrel was trained on him within half a second. He froze, hands uncertainly hovering in the air near his head in a _don’t shoot_ plea. “There’s nothing worth stealing in my apartment, FYI.”

 

Masked eyes landed on him, properly took him in, and the gun was gone as fast as it had appeared. He lowered his hands slowly, not terribly comforted despite the fact that the gun wasn’t pointed at him anymore. “Not a burglary, sweet cheeks.” He seemed to consider that, looking Peter up and down from his horizontal position. “Unless you _need_ some burgling done, because I can think of about ten different ways to burgle the shit out of you, hot stuff.”

 

“Only ten?” Peter responded, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, for all his best attempts otherwise. He leaned forward casually on the windowsill, letting his medical training kick in. “I heard a crash, are you okay? Did you fall?”

 

“Fit as a fiddle,” Peter could almost _see_ the shit-eating grin, despite the mask. “Fell for _you_ , gorgeous.”

 

“Okay, Sir Lies-A-Lot, I can see the blood. Look, I’m not going to call the cops or anything, okay? But I’m a nurse, I can help you if you’ll let me take a look at it.” Peter spread his hands, trying his absolute best to remain nonthreatening.

 

“Look at what?” Peter nodded to the blood that was quickly coloring the majority of the man’s strange get-up, and the guy looked down, as though he’d forgotten about it. Well, blood loss will do that to a person. “Oh, you don’t have to. Really, I’m totally fine. _Totally_.”

 

The man curled his fingers and began shaking a Shaka sign at him, and Peter decided to take the risk and climb out the window. Instead of drawing a gun again, however, the masked man just squeaked excitedly, eyes combing over Peter’s body. Right, he forgot the shirt.

 

“God must be real,” The man declared, and Peter snorted, crouching carefully next to him. He raised his hands again, gesturing to the wound on the man’s abdomen to see if he’d be allowed to touch it. “You can put your hands on me any day, baby cakes.”

 

“ _Baby cakes?_ ” Peter couldn’t help but laugh, gingerly pushing the pieces of fabric aside to examine the wound. Christ, the guy looked completely shredded, how was he even still awake? And losing this much blood? Peter immediately pressed his hand over it, applying appropriate pressure. “Let’s stick with Peter, okay?”

 

“Peter?” The man repeated, sounding genuinely confused for a moment. Peter raised an eyebrow, glancing up at his unexpected patient and counting his pulse in the back of his head as blood flowed between his fingers.

 

“Yeah, that’s my name.” Okay, 55 bpm, not bad but still lower than normal. “What should I call you?”

 

“…Name’s Deadpool.” Clearly an alias, but Peter skimmed over it, reaching for one of Deadpool’s gloved hands and tugging it over his wound.

 

“Alright, Deadpool,” Peter pressed down, showing him how to keep constant pressure on it. “I have to go get my first aid kit, okay? You’re going to need stitches. Try not to move, and keep your hand right here.”

 

“I really don’t need – I’m fine, honest.” Deadpool insisted, though Peter thought he detected a note of bewilderment in the man’s tone. Like he didn’t expect Peter to recommend stitches for a _gaping abdominal wound_. Probably the shock talking, honestly.

 

“You can be even better, then.” Peter double-timed it back through the window, scrambling to find his first aid kit. He knocked over about half of his bathroom supplies digging it out from underneath the counter, trying not to appear breathless when he calmly made his way back outside. Keep calm with the patient, but be quick and expedient otherwise. Time was of the essence, of course.

 

“Really, baby boy, I’ll be fine.” Peter ignored Deadpool, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “You’re cute when you worry, do you know that?”

 

“You’re right, you _will_ be fine, after I stitch the two halves of your body back tog-” Peter stopped cold, blinking in confusion as he pushed Deadpool’s hand away, needle and thread already in his grasp. The wound – it was still there, still pretty gnarly – but it looked like it was two weeks old, not fresh like it had a moment earlier.

 

“You were saying?” Peter doesn’t even understand how it’s possible, but he’s pretty sure he can _see_ Deadpool’s eyelashes fluttering at him through the mask. He knocks his glasses down onto his nose by way of response, confirming that yes, in fact, the wound is somewhat healed.

 

“…Still needs stitches.” Peter reached forward to hold the pieces of skin together, preparing to sew them up, when Deadpool’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t a hard grip, but enough to slow Peter, who looked back up at the man.

 

“Why? I’ll heal. You really don’t have to. Don’t waste your time on me.” Peter shook his head at Deadpool’s words, frown turning down the corners of his mouth.

 

“Just because you heal doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, right?” Peter rolled the needle between his two fingers. “Let me help you.”

 

“Why?” Deadpool asked again, genuinely curious. Peter grabbed the gloved hand trapping his with his empty hand, gently freeing himself.

 

“I’m a nurse, I help people. You qualify as people.” Deadpool huffed, flopping back again and allowed Peter to continue tending his wound, though he didn’t exactly seem happy about it.

 

“I really don’t, kiddo.” Peter shook his head, pushing the needle into Deadpool’s skin, back and forth, a quick stitch job. It went faster than he thought, considering it was already half-healed. To his credit, the man didn’t even acknowledge it, and Peter wondered how often he sustained mortal injuries that he didn’t even flinch.

 

He snipped off the thread with a small pair of medical scissors from his kit, tying it efficiently before he grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and, without warning, upturned it over the ripped flesh. _That_ certainly got a reaction, in the form of a long and impressive string of curses slipping from Deadpool’s mouth like butter on a biscuit.

 

“Sorry,” Peter said, not sounding sorry in the slightest, as he leaned back on his heels. “You’re all set. Try not to torque your body too much, you might rip the stitches.”

 

“Aw, does that mean no nookie, sweetums?” Deadpool proceeded to make a series of increasingly disgusting noises from under his mask, and Peter couldn’t help his snort-laugh as he pulled off the bloody latex and balled them into each other.

 

“No, I don’t think you’re in any shape to be doing _that_.” The man tried to sit up, then, and Peter put a warning hand on his shoulder, easing him up slowly. He could almost feel the amusement rolling off the other man, but Deadpool, shockingly enough, complied with his request.

 

“Sure you don’t want to find out what kind of _shape_ I’m in?” The lines were just getting worse and worse, and Peter patted him calmly on the shoulder.

 

“I’ve had a very long day, and while I must say I’m incredibly flattered…Deadpool, I just don’t think I’m up to it.” Deadpool tsked, patting down one of his pockets and eventually coming up with a phone.

 

“That’s a real shame, baby boy. You look all kinds of flexible.” Peter grinned at him, closing the lid of his first aid kit with a plastic click. “I _am_.”

 

Deadpool choked, for what Peter suspected was intentional comedic effect, but he found it funny all the same. Who _was_ this guy? Dropping from the sky, wasting a good pint of blood on a stranger’s fire escape, and in this get up?

 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what were you – ” Deadpool shut him up with a shushing finger right to the face, which Peter batted at with a splutter. A glove crusted in blood was not something he wanted to have on his mouth, thank you very much.

 

“I gotta go, kiddo. Thanks for letting me stare into those puppy dog eyes for a whole ten minutes. Made my freakin’ day.” Deadpool tapped out a response to a text before stuffing his phone away and attempting to stand. Well, Peter says attempting, but really he was well on his way to succeeding, actually. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

 

“Wait, hold on a second.” Peter didn’t even have a chance to stand up himself before Deadpool was _literally jumping off a twelve story fire escape_. Great. Peter winced at the audible crack of bone, hurrying to the edge of the railing to look down. He was rewarded with a thumbs up from the middle of a trash pile, which gradually shifted to reveal the black and red idiot.

 

“You’re certifiably insane!” Peter yelled from above, and Deadpool’s laugh was loud enough to carry all the way back up to him, and possibly the entire block.

“Tell me something I don’t know!” He waved, hobbling out of the trash pile with two broken ankles to show for it. Peter hissed again, Jesus, that looked bad, and for what? As quickly as he’d entered it, the strange man was round the corner of the alley and out of Peter’s life.

 

He didn’t dwell on it for more than thirty seconds, though, standing out on his fire escape with nothing but a pair of bloody latex gloves to prove Deadpool had been there. He grew up in New York City; he works at an ER in Bushwick.

 

Peter had seen stranger.

 

***

 

“Is that a knife in your shoulder?!” It was the second time this week he’d found a mercenary bleeding out on his fire escape, and he was starting to wonder if God really hated him this much. Deadpool had the audacity to smirk at him and waggle his eyebrows (how the hell could Peter even make his eyebrows out underneath that mask? But somehow he did.) 

 

“Or maybe I’m just happy to see you.” Now it was Peter’s turn to raise his eyebrows, before they drew into a furrow over his thick-rimmed glasses. He was coming off a twelve hour shift and he honestly didn’t have the constitution to deal with this. “No, that’s definitely a knife.”

 

“But I _am_ happy to see you.” Deadpool interjected, and Peter sighed, the beginnings of a migraine already forming in his temples. He ushered Deadpool to sit, ducking back into his window to grab the kit he hadn’t even had time to stash back under the sink in his bathroom.

 

“Hey, you know you don’t have to – “ Peter cut Deadpool off with a sharp look, already snapping on another pair of latex gloves. If it had the added effect of lending drama to his expression, well. “That shouldn’t have been hot, but # _swoon_.”

 

“Do you ever shut up?” Peter snorted, gently examining the literal _knife_ sticking out of Deadpool’s shoulder. Said shoulder was pushed out at the wrong angle, grinding bone painfully together, held apart by the knife. He’d have to pull it out and set it, with a possible need for stitches again.

 

“Nope.” Deadpool popped the ‘p’ with a lazy grin in his voice. “Part of my eternal wit and charm.”

 

“Wait till you see my eternal _duct tape_.” Peter muttered the threat mostly to himself, gently laying one hand across Deadpool’s shoulder, just below the wound. “I’m going to have to pull the knife out.”

 

“A man after my own heart.” Deadpool turned his head, and Peter got the distinct impression that he was batting his eyelashes under that mask. Why it made Peter blush, however, he couldn’t even begin to decipher, nor did he particularly want to at the moment. Half in an effort of distraction, Peter braced his hand and pulled the blade out, wincing softly as he felt it pull through flesh and scrape against bone on the way out.

 

“Mother of PISS!” Deadpool rolled his shoulders with a sickening _crack,_ forcing the displaced one back into its socket. “Thanks, baby boy. Would have been a bitch getting that out on my own. I’d have to break my other arm to get it around that far – and have you ever tried working a TV remote with your nose? Sucks!”

 

“Yes, well,” Peter sighed and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose from where they were sliding. Seriously, he needed to get new frames, stat. “Would you mind explaining _how_ you got a knife shoved in your back?”

 

“What else was I supposed to block it with?” Deadpool asked while Peter stared at him and, what’s _worse_ , he was _serious_! Just…wow. How was this his life?

 

“Who’s stabbing you, anyway?” Peter tried again, reaching for his kit, intending to disinfect the wound. Deadpool stopped him, though, gentle but firm as his bigger, gloved hand closed around Peter’s wrist.

 

“I’m a mercenary. I unalive people for a living.” Blunt, no hint of a joking tone in his voice, and Peter looked up, eyes wide. Deadpool was staring at him, almost…expectantly. “Nobody that doesn’t _deserve_ it.”

 

“Nobody deserves it.” Peter contradicted immediately, and Deadpool’s grip tightened a little. Peter didn’t back down, though, staring into the white eyes of the mask. “Not a very good mercenary, if you’re getting stabbed.”

 

“You should see the other guy.” Deadpool snorted, cocking his head to the side as he considered Peter. Clearly, it wasn’t the reaction – or rather lack of reaction – he’d been expecting.

 

“Look, I’m just saying, maybe you should try not getting stabbed.” Peter thought he managed to make that sound offhand, but maybe not, because he’s pretty sure Deadpool’s eyes just narrowed beneath that mask. At least the remark gets the merc to release his wrist.

 

“It doesn’t…I don’t know, _bother_ you that I just admitted to murder? Lots of murder. Lots and _lots_ of murder, kiddo.” Peter sighed and snapped off his gloves, aware that Deadpool was probably done with letting him take care of his injuries.

 

“Of course it _bothers_ me. Not only am I a sane, rational person, but I’m a _nurse,_ in case you forgot.” Deadpool just stared at him, and Peter pushed his glasses up to the crown of his head. “I kind of have a value for human life.”

“But that’s just it, I’m a nurse. Not judge, jury, and executioner. I’m not saying I’m _okay_ with what you’re doing, I’m pretty sure it’s obvious, even to you, that it’s wrong.” More silence. Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen the man go quiet for more than twenty seconds. “But it doesn’t matter when you’re up on my table. Or fire escape, as it were.”

 

“So you…what? You’re just…?” It honestly seemed like Peter had managed to flabbergast Deadpool for a moment.

 

“I’m just a residency nurse who’s very tired, and hungry, and not up to morality discussions right now, yes. Murder is wrong. You know that, I know that, but knowing that isn’t going to stop me taking the knife out of your shoulder. Capeesh?” Okay, maybe Peter snapped a little bit at the end there, but in his defense, he really was quite exhausted.

 

“Clear as crystal,” Deadpool managed to kick back into gear with a sloppy salute, and Peter picked up a bottle of Advil from his kit, knocking out two of the pills.

 

“Take these. One every six hours - with your healing you should be fine after twelve.” He placed them in Deadpool’s palm, curling the man’s fingers around them.

 

“I don’t need these, Petey-pie,” The merc protested, and Peter cut him off with an eye-roll.

 

“Take the pills, Deadpool. Good night.” With that, Peter gathered his supplies and clambered back through his window. He was reaching his Done With This Shit point and would have to wait until the morning to fully process the murder confession he’d heard tonight.

 

“Night, Petey.” Deadpool muttered back to him, still looking down at the pills in his hand as Peter shut the window.

 

***

 

Peter worked long hours, okay, but he really couldn’t ignore the man bleeding out on his fire escape, no matter how much he’d rather collapse face first onto his bed and sink into oblivion.

 

“Are you serious right now?” Peter grumbled as he slid the window open. The fire escape was still ringing with the force of Deadpool’s fall, and the man’s leg was completely and entirely fucked up. No blood though, which, thank heaven for small mercies.

 

“Petey Pumpkin Pie! My favorite wet nurse!” Peter could hear the grin in Deadpool’s voice and he sighed, bending down to scoop the first aid kit up off the floor where he’d dumped it three nights ago. This was starting to turn into a worrisome trend, but Peter was kind of powerless to stop it. He helped people, it was in his DNA.

“I’m definitely not a wet nurse.” On go the gloves, force of habit. Deadpool’s eyebrows were waggling and Peter studiously ignored him.

 

“Do you want to be?” That got half a laugh out of Peter, as he gingerly began examining Deadpool’s leg. How the fabric hadn’t torn, he wasn’t sure, but it looked as though each segment of the man’s leg had been twisted the wrong direction.

 

“I brought sopaipillas! The chimichanga place was closed, but this is the next best thing, trust me.” Peter wasn’t sure where the hell Deadpool unearthed the mildly-smushed bag of sopaipillas from, but he blinked and accepted the soggy bag when it was unceremoniously shoved into his hands.

 

“Um. Thanks?” He set it aside, resolutely not thinking about the fact that the contents of the bag actually smelled quite delicious. “Turn over for me, on your side.”

 

“You’re welcome.” Deadpool sounded pretty damn pleased with himself. Peter prodded his side, urging him to turn over, and surprisingly, Deadpool obeyed.

 

“I’m going to have to set each bone. How did you even – you know what, I probably don’t want to know, do I?” Peter sighed, grasping Deadpool’s thigh with both hands. He shoved it back into place with all of his body weight, ignoring the aborted ‘shouldn’t you buy me dinner first, doll?’ comment that ended in a hiss from Deadpool.

 

“One down,” Peter huffed, smoothing his hand over Deadpool’s thigh to help him through the pain. With his healing ability, it should probably start to feel a bit better as soon as it’s back in place, right? “One more, okay? Just breathe for me.”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Deadpool assured him, sounding perplexed as he said it. As though – what, as though Peter wasn’t supposed to care if he was hurt?

 

“Just breathe.” Peter offered a thin, if genuine, smile. He took Deadpool’s calf in hand, taking a deep breath of his own before he twisted the bone back into place. The man cursed emphatically, one hand reaching out to grip Peter’s shoulder.

 

“Shit on a shingle, Batman!” Deadpool let Peter go hastily, already flexing his leg to check that it worked.

 

“Better?” Peter steadied him with a gentle hand, starting a little when it almost seemed like he could _feel_ Deadpool healing beneath his hand. Feel the tendons moving and realigning themselves –

 

“Um,” Peter yanked his hand away, blinking furiously. It was a weird feeling, tendons knitting themselves back together beneath the skin.

 

“Wade.” Deadpool blurted out the name like it was a curse word, spitting it out against the fabric of his mask. “My name. You can call me Wade. If you want.”

“…Wade.” Peter couldn’t help but smile, the second genuine smile Deadpool – _Wade_ – had gotten out of him. “That’s a nice name.”

 

“Nicer than Deadpool?” Somehow, the question felt like a test, and Peter took a second to mull it over.

 

“You look more like a Wade anyway.” He finally decided on, and after another beat, Wade turned around and offered up the sopaipillas.

 

***

 

It continued on like that for a while – several weeks, in fact. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, honestly. Every two to three days – sometimes four, if Peter was lucky – Wade would appear grievously injured on his fire escape, usually with a bag of fast food as an offering. Peter had to admit, it was great practice for his stitches. They were getting neater by the day.

 

“Tis but a scratch!” Deadpool announced one such evening, tossing a bag of sofritas down on the iron wrought platform. Peter leaned against the windowsill, staring at the merc blankly.

 

“A scratch? Your arm’s off!” His mouth automatically filled in the reference despite his growing horror that _Wade’s arm was literally gone_.

 

“No, it isn’t!” Wade was definitely grinning at him from under that mask, but Peter was just staring at the bloody stump. “You’re officially my favorite nurse.”

 

And so it went. Do you see what he had to deal with? Undoubtedly, though, the food Wade brought was always utterly delicious.

 

“You don’t have to bring me food, you know, I can pay for myself,” Peter offered, once, as Wade prepared to jump off his fire escape again. He wished the man would just use the freaking stairs, but Peter knew better than to push for too much at once.

 

“You already are,” Wade said, surprisingly serious (and annoyingly cryptic, the shithead), before his energy returned tenfold. “Ta ta for now!”

 

(As an aside: Peter never wanted to be blown a kiss from a person falling twelve stories, but he’s checking it off the bucket list anyway.)

 

A loud thump alerted him to Wade’s presence once again, and Peter padded in from the kitchen, running a hand through his messy hair and wondering what the hell it would be tonight. The blood running down his window was unexpected, but not entirely unprecedented, and Peter swallowed down the flash of emotion at the sight. He was used to blood and gore, yes, especially from Deadpool, but that didn’t mean he was unaffected.

“Wade? Wade!” Peter couldn’t help but gape as he slid out the window, stomach plummeting as he assessed the damage. Wade’s skull appeared to be partially caved in, mask bloody and squished around the area. The man staggered, words unintelligible as he leaned against the side of Peter’s building.

 

He knew Wade’s healing was great, infallible even, but how the hell did he even make it over here in this state? Peter caught the man’s arm, tugging him towards the window and into the flat – something he’d certainly never done before, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

 

“Wade. Wade, if you can hear me, it’s – it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Peter said firmly, though whether it was for Wade or for himself he wasn’t exactly sure. The young nurse stumbled under the weight of the larger man, but Peter was wiry and managed to get Wade sitting down safely on the bathroom floor.

 

Wade gave a sickening gurgle, head lolling towards Peter, and Peter rested a hand on Wade’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. He wasted no time in pulling out his medical scissors, sliding one end under the back of Wade’s mask and cutting a clean line up through the material.

 

Another sound, something akin to protest, but Peter ignored it, gently easing the mask off the wound. Blood bubbled and pooled; it looked like it was already rapidly healing, what must it have been like originally if this was already half-healed?

 

Peter grabbed a washcloth and turned on the tub, soaking it in warm water. He coerced Wade into laying down, mangled head in Peter’s lap, so he could wipe away the blood and keep the area clean. There wasn’t much else he could do except wait for Wade to heal. If he healed.

 

Three hours and one completely ruined pair of pajama pants later, and Wade’s face seemed to have healed almost back to normal. His head was still a little dented, but his features seemed mostly back in order. Except: he was scarred. Really, really scarred. Peter had only seen those kinds of wounds on firefighters, the ones that came into the ER completely passed out from the pain.

 

He couldn’t help his wandering fingers, lightly tracing the patterns on Wade’s cheek. Had he been in a fire? Peter watched him grow an arm back - why hadn’t the burns healed?

 

Wade’s eyes snapped open on Peter’s third loop around his cheek, hand flying to catch the nurse’s. Peter smiled, exhaling with relief. “Thought you were a goner for a second there, Wade.”

 

“…my mask. Where’s my mask?” Wade’s eyes were wild, grip tightening on Peter’s hand. Peter took a deep breath to calm himself, putting on his best patient-soothing voice.

“I had to cut it off. You were…your head was caved in.” He couldn’t help the way his voice trembled a little on the words ‘caved in’, but if Wade noticed, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he sat up, lightening fast, and shoved Peter away.

 

“Don’t. Don’t look.” Peter frowned, raising his hands non-threateningly, something he hadn’t had to do since their first encounter.

 

“Wade, I’m not going to – “ Wade had Peter’s wrists in an iron grip, above his head, before Peter could even finish the sentence. He didn’t even have the air to finish the sentence, because Wade’s knee was pressing down on his stomach.

 

“ _Don’t_.” Wade snarled, and Peter closed his eyes obediently, wheezing in a slow breath. His heart was pounding in his ears – the adrenaline, probably – and Peter tried to steady himself.

 

“Wade,” He started after a moment, slow, breathless enunciation. “…you’re hurting me.”

 

Something in that exchange seemed to strike a chord, because Wade was up and off of Peter instantaneously, backing out of the bathroom. “I didn’t. I.”

 

“Wade – “ But the merc was turning away from him, disappearing out into Peter’s bedroom. He scrambled up off the floor, chasing after him –

 

But Wade was already gone.

 

***

 

Two days later, Peter had a dream.

 

He knew it was a dream because it’s in his apartment, and it doesn’t smell like mothballs. That, and everything seems more or less orderly – which it most certainly _isn’t_ in real life. Anyway, he’s in his apartment and the TV is playing _Star Wars: A New Hope_.

 

“Definitely a dream. This is the original.” Peter muttered to himself, watching as Han walked to the Millennium Falcon without that stupid, CGI Jabba in tow.

 

“I’d kill for a copy of this in real life.” Peter started at the voice that wasn’t his, just then noticing that he was sitting on his couch, curled up comfortably in someone’s arms. “No, seriously, I would kill someone for an original copy. Put that as my next job payment, I’ll fucking _do it_.”

 

“Wade?” Peter turned his head, blinking at the man. He was blurry, around the edges, but the majority of his face was clear. Scars crisscrossed, pulled taut in some places by the shark-toothed smile on his lips. It seemed…so easy, that smile, far easier than Peter could ever imagine actually happening.

“At your service. Dreaming about me, baby boy?” Peter elbowed Wade at the salacious tone, rolling his eyes. “Aw, but this is a dream! We can do anything you want. In several different positions.”

 

“ _No_ , I am not having dream sex with you.” Wade chuckled, tugging Peter closer and pressing his lips against Peter’s forehead. Peter froze at the contact, blush creeping up his neck. Even in his dreams he couldn’t be smooth, go figure.

 

“Alright, alright, I’m not here for that anyway.” Peter glanced up, fingers curling together against Wade’s arm. Scarred, like the rest of him, but Peter didn’t really mind.

 

“…then why are you here?” Wade huffed out another laugh, tilting his head to look at Peter. Eerily similar to how it looked when he did it under the mask, except now, Peter could see his eyes, the way they were tracing over Peter’s features, searching for something.

 

“This is your dream, Petey, you tell me.” Wade’s eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled. His eyebrow – or the place where one would have been – quirked upwards in silent challenge, and Peter moved forward without thinking.

 

Peter tugged at Wade’s shirt – his shirt, a simple t-shirt, not the spandex nightmare of a costume he ran around getting shot at in – and dragged him into a surprisingly passionate kiss. Warm, soft lips against rougher, warmer lips, and Peter could feel his own temperature rising.

 

Wade’s hands slid down Peter’s side, roaming, pulling him in closer. Peter didn’t realize sparks could fly so literally between two people, but goddamn. And it wasn’t even – wasn’t even _real_.

 

“I’m as real as you want me to be.” Wade whispered, pulling back just enough that his lips brushed against Peter’s with each word. He was breathing heavily, even in his dream, and the TV had faded to white noise in the background.

 

“I do. I do want.” Peter murmured, fingers tracing down, across Wade’s cheek. The man smiled, pulling back enough to look Peter directly in the eye. The world seemed to narrow down, to those eyes, hazel and catching the light just right, staring warmly into Peter’s chocolate brown.

 

“Then go get me.”

 

***

 

Peter woke up to a loud banging, a pounding, really, on his front door. Bleary-eyed and shaking off the perennial exhaustion – he’d only been able to sleep what, four hours before this interruption? – Peter pulled on a random pair of pants and made his way to the door.

“Hold on, hold on,” Peter’s mouth was stretched in a yawn as he opened the door, freezing when he was met with three very official-looking guys in suits and sunglasses. Sunglasses, at six in the morning? “Um. I think you have the wrong apartment.”

 

“No, Mr. Parker, we have exactly the right apartment.” The man stepped forward, sliding his glasses off in a fluid motion as the other two men fell into flanks behind him. Peter threw his arm across the doorway, staring him down.

 

“Well, you don’t have my permission to enter. What do you want?” He looked like any other sort of businessman, unassuming and easily looked over – except for the hardness in his eyes, the unwavering calm that was honestly kind of unnerving.

 

“I’m here on behalf of an…interested party. An official, government party.” The man pulled a badge from his jacket pocket, offering it to Peter carefully. Peter took it, frown starting to pull at the edges of his mouth. “We’d very much appreciate if you could answer a couple of questions for us.”

 

“I’m sorry…Agent Coulson.” Peter handed the badge back, staring back at the Agent, unblinking. “But I’m not sure I would know anything of use to you. What’s this about?”

 

Agent Coulson considered Peter for a long moment, tucking his badge away. It was clear Peter wasn’t going to let them into the apartment, so he lowered his voice and continued his elaboration. “We have reason to believe a certain individual has been frequenting your…company. He may or may not be using the pseudonym ‘Deadpool’.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter instantly denied, keeping his face as expressionless as he possibly could. He was not the best liar in the world, but the last thing he wanted to do was get mixed up in Wade’s business.

 

Wade’s business. God. How could he forget?

 

Peter pushed aside the numbing thought, focusing on the Agent standing in front of him. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

 

“I can appreciate your loyalty, Mr. Parker, but I think we both know the person of interest I’m referring to. It would be in your best interest to be completely honest with us.” His tone was calm, collected, but Peter could feel the underlying threat in his bones.

 

“It would be in _your_ best interest if you left before I call the police.” Peter refused to back down, arm tensing where it was splayed out to block the doorframe. Agent Coulson chuckled, hands hooked comfortably in his pockets.

 

“You don’t have to be afraid of us, Mr. Parker. We are not your enemy.” Another beat of tense silence passed between them, before Agent Coulson broke it by speaking again. “I’d like to make you a proposition. We just want information. We can…make it worth your while.”

Bribing him? Seriously? Peter shook his head, fingers tensing on the doorframe. “Not. Interested. Leave.”

 

“You don’t have to answer now – “ Peter cut him off, eyes narrowing behind his lenses.

 

“I am answering now. No.” Agent Coulson’s lips quirked just the slightest bit at the corners, and he slid his hands out of his pockets, raising them in surrender.

 

“Think on it. We’ll…be in touch.” Peter grit his teeth to keep himself from saying _don’t bother_. The Agent turned around and, as if on cue, the other two fell in step behind him, almost military in fashion. Peter didn’t close the door until they were completely gone, until the staircase door closed behind them and their footsteps faded out of his hearing range completely.

 

***

 

Peter didn’t hear from anyone – Deadpool or anyone associated with him – for another week and a half after that. Then, one night, right out of the blue, Peter turned on the light in his living room and there he is, in one piece?

 

“Jesus, Wade, way to give a guy a heart attack.” Peter set his bag down by the door, closing it and stepping fully into the room. “Are you okay? You better not have bled on my couch.”

 

“Relax, Petey. I’m not…I’m not hurt.” Wade swallowed almost audibly – Peter could definitely see the latent hesitation there. “I brought burgers.”

 

“…right. Good. That’s good.” Peter shook his head to clear it, smiling softly up at Wade. “Thank you.”

 

Wade nodded and started unpacking the fast food bag. Peter flopped down on the couch, catching the burger Wade tossed his way and patting the space next to him for the merc to sit down.

 

“You know,” Peter began carefully, acutely aware of the lack of conversation coming from Wade. He was always so talkative – but after he disappeared, Peter certainly didn’t want to drive him away again. “You don’t need to have an excuse to come see me. You can just…you can just come.”

 

“…why?” Wade stilled, head cocked to one side towards Peter. He had to look down, to avoid thinking about – about _everything_ , and blushing like an idiot.

 

“You’re my friend. I…like spending time with you.” Wade leaned forward at Peter’s words. It almost seemed like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

 

“But _why_? I’m – “

“You’re great!” Peter blurted out, nerves overriding his reason. “You’re funny, and you talk way too much, but _I_ talk too much too. Your healing should be impossible and you _kill_ people but I still like you. I still want to spend time with you and I don’t know _why_ I just –”

 

“I don’t unalive people anymore.” Wade cut him off quietly, but his words silenced Peter instantly. “I stopped. When, uh, after I met you.”

 

“You. But. Then…who’ve you been fighting?” Peter asked, brain stuttering a little to compute that. Who the hell else would have bashed Wade’s skull in?

 

“…you help people everyday. I thought maybe I’d…see if I could lighten your load.” Peter stared for a moment before a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

 

“So the knife, and the arm – “

 

“Mugging. Drug bust.” Wade shrugged as if to say, ‘what can you do’. “The last time I was here was an especially brutal carjacking.”

 

He’s been helping people. Peter could feel the warmth, the pride, spreading up through his chest, and he paused for a moment, unsure of how exactly to put it into words. What finally did come out, though, is:

 

“I kissed you in my dream.” That definitely threw Wade for a loop, Peter can tell. He leaned forward, one hand resting on Wade’s knee. “I want to do it again.”

 

“You do?” Wade’s voice was a little breathless, disbelief coloring his tone. Peter nodded, one hand rising to the seam of Wade’s mask. He didn’t move to take it off, just let his fingers rest against the seam, a question.

 

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, glancing up at the whites of Wade’s mask. A moment passed between them as Wade made the decision, and Peter bit his lip as he decided to just go for it, fingers pulling up the seam of Wade’s mask. He went slowly, giving the man every opportunity to pull away, to stop him. He didn’t, however, and the fabric rolled up, over Wade’s chin, mouth, nose, and finally his eyes, cresting up and off the top of his head.

 

“Hi there.” Peter’s smile widened, and Wade stared back at him, a mix of wonder and apprehension. “I’m Peter.”

 

Wade licked his lips subconsciously, opening his mouth to answer, when Peter finally leaned in and closed the distance. The kiss was _way_ better than his dream had led him to believe. Wade was warm, solid against him, and unendingly gentle. Peter kissed him until he was breathless, having to pull away for air, lips brushing sensuously together.

 

“That was…” Peter murmured, and Wade nodded, shy smile of his own lighting up his face. “Yeah, it was.”

“…these guys came here, asking about you. They offered me money.” Peter breathed, concern warring with his desire to keep kissing Wade. The older man thought for a second, thumb smoothing down the furrow in Peter’s brow.

 

“Let me guess: Agent Douchenozzle, lord of the pissed off accountants’ squad. Sound about right?” Peter nodded, wondering who exactly that was, and if they were really with the government. “Did you take it?”

 

Peter started at the question, pulling back a little to look at Wade seriously. “Of course not!”

 

Wade laughed, tugging Peter back in for another kiss. It took Peter a second to catch up and stop the proceedings, sidetracked as he was. “Damn. We could have split the fee.”

 

“You’re an asshole,” Peter snorted, punching Wade lightly in the shoulder. That earned him another kiss, this time a little sloppier, heated.

 

And Peter was just fine with that.


End file.
